And what of his son? Chris wondered what he could do to save Greg, if the boy was still alive. Just considering the problem, though, formed a knot in his stomach. He didn’t even know where to start. Even his mother’s legacy did not include sufficient resourcefulness for that.
Locke shrank down in his seat. The effect of the painkiller was wearing off and he didn’t want to be dull-witted when he reached London. Greg was beyond his reach, just as so much in his life had been. Barring a miracle, he would have to carry his son’s death on his conscience for the rest of his life. Chris wondered about Brian Charney’s conscience. How many similar burdens had he carried? Not that they prevented him from taking on a few more.
Locke thought of Lubeck dying alone in a godforsaken South American town and of Charney spilling his blood on a thick carpet inside the Dorchester Hotel. They died as they had lived, Chris realized: empty, alone, a vacuum where their morality had once been. They too had been running, afraid to look back, just as he was. So he wasn’t alone there, wasn’t the only man to suffer through such a crisis. Maybe all men did. Some were just better at the running — and the dodging — than others. You could fool the others but you couldn’t fool yourself. The Luber had resisted being retired, because then the running would have to stop and all that lay behind — the truths — would catch up. So he had run to San Sebastian and died there and maybe it was better that way. And Locke had run to London, Liechtenstein, Italy, and now back to London again.
But dying wouldn’t be better.
Because he had something Lubeck never had and Charney had lost: a family. His marriage was no better or worse than anyone else’s; it just was and he had been a prima donna to believe otherwise. And what kids these days didn’t want to break from their parents at younger and younger ages?
Locke felt chilled suddenly as his thoughts came back to Greg. Was running to the American Embassy the best way to arrange for a rescue? Or would the Committee keep Greg alive only as long as Chris kept his mouth shut? If he was still alive. There were no answers, only decisions to be weighed and a chance taken either way. No black or white, just gray. Men like Dogan were used to the gray. For Locke it was a new shade.
When the jet came down in London, Nikki gave him one slight smile and moved into the farthest aisle. Chris felt the guilt chew at him. He cursed himself for even considering she might have been part of the opposition when, in fact, it was he who had placed her life in very real danger by using her to help him escape from Rome. He wondered if he should call her back and warn her quietly to be on her guard, that he had behaved strangely out of fear. But she was already too far away, still hurt and confused by his treatment of her. It was probably better that way. A thinly veiled warning would have led to questions and to her acting out of apprehension rather than routine. It was safest to leave her ignorant.
Nikki moved down the ramp into the Heathrow terminal ahead of him, never looking back.
Locke’s next problem was making it through Customs. The passport that had gotten him out of Rome could never get him past the far more diligent officials in London. During the long flight he had come up with a shadow of a plan but lacked a method to implement it.
A female representative from the airline stood just inside the terminal greeting the disembarking passengers with smiles and well wishes, hoping on behalf of the airline that they had enjoyed the charter and would book it again. Locke’s method of implementation was suddenly clear. He approached her straightaway, not waiting for the woman to pick him out.
“A problem, sir?” she asked, her smile dimming.
“Yeah, I suppose having my passport stolen on the plane could be called that.”
“Stolen?”
“Somebody yanked it from my jacket while I was asleep.”
“Did you inform the stewardess?”
“Yes, and she told me to see you as soon as I was off the plane. Not much help at all really.” Locke gritted his teeth. “Hell of an operation you’re running here.”
The woman’s face reddened. This was probably the last thing she’d expected or wanted to hear. “We’d better go somewhere and get this straightened out.”
“That would be jolly.”
“Follow me.”
They moved beyond the regular Customs lines into the same bank of offices where Chris had met Robert Trevor, the man who had given him the gun six days before. Wouldn’t it be something to meet up with him again? The woman ushered Chris into one of the small offices and offered him a chair.
“I’ll find one of the supervisors and be back presently,” she explained. “The airline will represent you every step of the way and will take whatever steps are necessary to expedite matters, Mr., ah—”
“Jenkins, Peter Jenkins.”
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins,” she said moving for the door. “I’ll only be a minute.”
When she was gone, Chris sprang immediately from his chair. He had penetrated this part of Customs, but getting into England proper remained the real obstacle. There was only one chance.
Locke stepped out of the office and wandered into an area prohibited to passengers, all the time keeping his eye peeled for the return of the airline rep.
“See here, what are you doing?”
Locke turned to his right and found a man in a blue Customs uniform approaching.
“This is a restricted section,” the man charged. “No one’s allowed in here without an escort.”
Locke made himself look puzzled. “They sent me to the receiving area. My young nephew’s coming in on—”
“Well, sir, you’ve missed the receiving area altogether,” the official snapped. “De-boarding passengers don’t even pass this way.”
“But I—”
“You’ll have to exit this area immediately.”
Locke sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and started down the corridor with his bag in hand. He had done it! But that gave him little cause for celebration. He still had to reach Falmouth and the safe house. If the girl was a professional, she’d be expecting him. With Burgess dead, this was his only recourse. She’d know that, and Locke felt equally certain that Colin would have left her with detailed instructions on how to proceed. The big Brit must have known they would get him all along. He would have taken precautions.
Chris quickened his pace to a fast walk when he hit the main concourse of Heathrow. Speed remained the paramount concern but a trot would have made him too noticeable. At the exit he talked with three cabdrivers before finding one willing to make the five-hour journey to Falmouth. Chris agreed to his exorbitant fee. His funds were dwindling, but money meant nothing to him now. It was a tool to be used like any other.
The sun had just set when they reached a large housing development a mile from the center of Falmouth. Locke had the driver drop him off around the corner from the girl’s house at 205 Longfield, opting to walk the final stretch in case the house was under surveillance. The development’s homes were all pleasantly similar, terraced and fronted by small, tidy gardens. Two-oh-five Longfield was colored medium brown, virtually indistinguishable from the rest on the street, except for the lack of a garden.
He scanned the area carefully, passing the house three times before deciding it was safe to approach. Other than the barking of a few dogs and the low hum of music coming through an open window, the dark street was silent and the only cars parked along it deserted. Locke kept his pace steady up the walk toward 205 Longfield’s front door.
He rang the bell. Waited. No answer.
He rang it again. Still no answer.
Locke wanted to bang as hard as he could on the door but that might attract notice. He would have called the girl’s name had he known it.